So, she was readily confident that she wasn't all about being the superficial first ‘dater’. And this intrigued her. What was this desire to cross into the unknown? What was her magic, hidden brain imagining? Did she think she would discover another her inside? This both thrilled and terrified her. What if she hated, or maybe even worse, loved this other her? And yet, she now knew, she couldn't walk away now. She had to know if there was or wasn't another her inside. And either answer was alright with her. But not knowing that answer was unacceptable.
So she felt proud that she worked through all that and she confidently awaited Captain Jack's first contact. And it came quickly. When she came back from dinner that night, there was a box in her room, with a note from him. "Wear this dress. The car will pick you up at 6 PM tomorrow, promptly, for dinner and the symphony."
She was, to say the least, intimidated by the thought that this man, a total stranger really, knew where she was staying, had assumed she would be available (maybe not that surprised on this point as that was actually her job, but still....), could get something placed in her room, and as she opened the box, knew her dress size.
She recognized that it was a designer dress, both from the quality of the materials and the technique of the tailoring. She grew excited as she undressed and put it on. No bra, as it was backless. She knew, from both Steven, (who absolutely adored her back), and Mike, (who couldn't keep his hands off it when the opportunity arose), that men loved her back. So she felt no compunction about going braless. But the silver metallic bodice, off one shoulder, smashed her breasts. She was not concerned about her being too small-chested in this, as she was sure the runway model had less going for her up there; but she worried that she might upset the proportions of the designer. She found herself in awe of the design and wanted to do it justice. From the right shoulder, the bodice cut to below her left arm, coming to an inch wide strap to the back. That strap wound diagonally across her front dropping to the right hip as it swung around her. The left midriff was bare and she was proud of how well she had kept her trim waist from her youth.
Below the bodice was a floor length aqua skirt with a slit up the front of the right leg to just a few inches below the joint of her right hip. Though she could wear underwear, and should, she would not be able to wear stockings. They would either look too fuddy-duddy, or would compete for the attention of the dress. The dress was too well designed for her to allow that, and again she was infinitely grateful for her long and nicely shaped legs. She was going to pull this off. Captain Jack, or someone on his staff, had access to all the numbers that Cynthia and her team had deduced in those naked moments during her interview. Catherine knew that designers would normally custom measure and fit the starlets for the red carpet dresses they wore, so she upped her estimate of the respect for the two women who measured her that hour. Only both money and trust could bring something like this to her room.
So she wondered about this Captain Jack. Was he ex-military? The quality of the selection indicated a higher sense of culture than a pure military man. Perhaps, a retired military man from a classically trained and educated family, now a rich businessman in military sales? But Captain is not very high in rank, unless it was a Navy man. A retired sea captain? She smiled imagining a patch, a peg leg and a parrot eating a cracker from a hook. What if he was from an elite British social family? The rank earned by dint of social class. There a Captain was not an also-ran title. But perhaps the name was a ruse, a red herring to distract her, or mystify her and meant no title at all, just an alias.
But yet here was the beautiful dress, she thought, as she swirled before the floor length mirror, letting the dress gracefully flare out, realizing how careful she would have to be with her motion to keep her underwear hidden. It fit her, and she knew as nicely as most clothes fit her, this was not by chance. Someone knew enough of her skin color and measurements that this would look good. She doubted a man, any manly man, thinking of her metro-sexual Mike with a smile, could select a dress this well. No, Captain Jack had help. And he was unafraid to use it. That meant a confidence that he would not be betrayed or let down. This Captain Jack was a force. He was strong. He would be different. He was normally the type of man that knew well enough to stay away from the willful Catherine. She smiled at the shock he would probably feel when he realized that she would not be air-headed arm candy. Then she felt a bit disappointed, and hoped that he would not end things in a snit and cancel the date early, possibly reducing her market value in Cynthia's eyes. She would be good. She knew how to be politic and not let a man know her true feelings. But he, unless he was a total ass, would feel the lack of connection.
At least she would have a night in this dress, and the shoes that came with it, in matching metallic silver, thin weaving straps and five and a half inch heels. And the symphony, she thought, she and Steven would need to go more often to the symphony. It was a place where her practical workman husband had more artistic flair than Mike, or even herself. He loved symphonic music and had actually forced her into appreciating some of the lesser known Neo-Romantic composers like Janacek and Respighi.
In the morning as she hurried through the lobby at 7:30, hoping to catch a cup of coffee at a Starbuck's or even a Dunkin' Donuts before she had to meet the clients, with a wistful hope to be through with them in time to come back to hotel and prepare at leisure, one of the young men behind the concierge kiosk stepped up and called her name. "Ms Elliot, this came for you, and we were asked to make sure you received it this morning,” he said as he thrust forward a small box. "In fact, they were quite insistent."
"Who was insistent?" she asked, though she felt pretty certain that she knew. She opened the box.
"It was a messenger service of some type, but they arrived at 2 AM." The young man, with a name plate of 'Dave,' said. "They wanted to take it immediately to your room, but we, of course, declined."
"Good choice." She murmured looking at the gorgeous silver hand clutch. "Though something like this might be worth the interrupted sleep."
He peeked into the box, nodding both in satisfaction to the answer to the mystery of what was worth a 2 AM delivery and at the beauty of the purse. "Quite lovely. They were quite agitated and were anxious until we assured them that we would have it in your hands before 8 AM."
She handed it back to him, glancing at the clock. "You cut it close. You might have missed me." She said with a smile.
"No, ma'am. You are terribly hard to miss."
"Please see that this gets to my room, and do give a call to the courier so they don't die of anxiety."
"Of course, Miss." He said with a slight bow.
She continued out the door, feeling a bit more regal at the whole episode. It was, of course, from the mysterious Captain Jack and she was impressed with the force applied to either a designer to match the dress, or someone clever enough to match the design principles and techniques on such short notice. As she had run her hands over the clutch, she felt as if the thing was still warm from the manufacture. Few designers would make a purse to fit a single dress, but this one did. The same curls in the silver textured purse flowed with the same proportions as the dress, but yet, being smaller they couldn't have been to exact scale. This was not a hack working on the design, leave alone the manufacturer. The difficulty of the task was awesome and she was not surprised that it was not delivered with the dress, but that it was delivered at all.
So Captain Jack, or his team, had incredible leverage over the usually finicky and balky artist and artisan community. She knew that to be quite a feat and wanted to know more about this man. She realized suddenly that he, or someone on his team, was thinking about details that she had missed. She hadn't thought about a handbag until just when this one showed up. She knew that she would have discovered the oversight by noon, but it would have been a terrifying, and possibly impossible task to find the right purse in whatever time she would have left after the clients. She felt another step deeper in the waters that she suspected m
ight be over her head by the time the day was through.
She got her coffee, got to her meeting and, as it turned out, would have had almost no possibility of a successful purse hunt; but was fortunate enough to delight her clients into a successful three o'clock conclusion. Her walk back to the Intercontinental was slightly unhurried. The weather, for a Boston summer, was relatively lacking in humidity and felt more like a luscious dry warm day in Phoenix in late March or early April. Clear skies opened to the sea gulls drifting high, then swooping down the narrow roads that wound through the financial district. It was a pleasant city, just here. Traffic was minimal, either because the roads wound so horribly that no good progress could be made by anyone in a hurry, or because it was a very firm law that any pedestrian had the right of way over any automobile, no matter what the light or sign indicated. All they needed to do was step a single foot into the street and all traffic in those roads would stop for them, with nary a horn or dark look.
She once had the occasion to see this scenario fail. A man stepped in front of a taxi wishing to turn right at the corner and the taxi driver honked his horn. The man stopped in front of the taxi and glared at the driver. The driver flipped an open palm at the green light indicating his privilege. The man pulled out a wallet and flipped his police badge. Never had a taxi driver fallen from confidence so fast. His obsequiousness knew no bounds. Finally, with four cars mounting, quietly, behind the guilty taxi, the policeman let the man off with a warning and there was no more grateful man in Catherine's memory than that man as he nodded his head gladly, but carefully, as he turned the corner.
So a leisurely stroll through the streets delivered her to the hotel to take a slow deep bath and apply precision makeup, and make meticulous hair preparations. So it should not be a surprise to anyone, other than everyone who knew Catherine, that she was on time in the lobby, precisely at 6 PM. She was not sure if this was some inward fear of this Captain Jack, who seemed to hold sway over many people, or if she wanted to be on time, at least for this first escort, so she wouldn't get an early, unshakeable reputation for untimely reliability.
She walked through the travertine floored lobby, which on one side opened onto a deck that overlooked the river, and on the other side opened up to the highway. The foyer was two stories high and unlike so many big city hotel lobbies, which seemed to thrive on brocade and dark walnut paneling, was incredibly well lit. So she could not possibly hide. In the beautiful dress, seemingly attracting all light to her, and the clack, clack, clack of her silver heels on the stone, there were no eyes, male or female who did not turn to look at her, and once seeing her, there were no pair of eyes not willing to linger on her.
The Ice Queen that possessed her was able to steel herself and walk, unhesitating, through the lobby. She knew she risked an embarrassing wait at the door should no one be there for her. A plaintive, "Is there a Captain Jack limo here for me?" would never do. But head held high, she proceeded toward the spinning door.
Fortunately, she did not get but half way across the lobby before a man stepped up. In black cap and coat, white shirted with a skinny black tie, he said, not asked, "Ms Elliot, this way if you will." And he swung a hand out in front of himself and led her to a door, which was pulled open by the doorman, and to a long black limo to which he pulled the back door open, putting one hand behind him, pulled himself up to full height and asked, with a proffered hand, "Ma'am?"
She took his hand and stooped into the car, facing forward, eyes quickly adjusting to the light. Across from her, surely, sat Captain Jack. She was on new ground here, not knowing the etiquette of limos. It seemed both non-rude and impractical, two known but competing principles for all protocols, for the other passenger to step out of the car. So she did not know if she should be offended that he did not come in to retrieve her himself, or whether he was following limo blind date procedure to exquisite detail, or whether he was playing a power game.
For all appearances, she deemed, as her eyes adjusted to the light, he could very well be a power player. He had a salt and pepper, square-cut beard that matched his full head of slightly wavy hair. He was nowhere near balding, nor did he sport a military cut, but neither did he choose the long ponytail that some men did, who did so merely because they could. To her, some of those men wanted to scream, "I'm an old hippie!" or "I'm a cool, rapidly aging liberal. That surely attracts the chicks!" She found those men quite off-putting. His tuxedo looked as well fitting on him as her dress looked on her. At least while she was standing. While she walked elegantly in the gown, because she slid into the limo on the street side of the vehicle, she had some difficulty with the skirt catching and exposing not only her left leg as designed, but a goodly portion of her right leg as well, and she feared, at least a glimpse of her panties. The good Captain had the kind sense not to leer at her, or ogle her lovely legs should the opportunity have presented itself, but merely gazed piercingly at her eyes.
His eyes were dark brown, almost black and if Da Vinci had the whole "The eyes are the window of the soul," thing right, the shades were drawn here and there would be no soul searching stares with this man. His face had seen many years but did not look exhausted, but more crafted by nature. Men, some men, seemed to age so much better than women. Perhaps our culture allows us to appreciate those men who have succeeded over the ravages of time and we respect their scars and wrinkles. It seems so cruel what we expect of women in this regard. Old age seems less a success than a measuring stick of regret for opportunity lost. Catherine was proud of how well she looked, but she knew a lot of that was because she looked younger than her age. The combination of age won confidence and youthful DNA, coupled with her rigorous adherence to creams and lotions, SPFs and sun hats made her the beauty she was. But she knew, in the 20 years that lie before her, she would not look as impressive as this man before her. For she estimated his age to be at least 20 years in advance of hers, old enough to be her father, she thought. A sexy father in his intimidating way.
"We have time before our dinner reservation. What do you know of Boston?" He asked waving his hand towards the all of Boston. His voice was strong and moderately deep, as she expected. She pictured him in a dark blue pea coat, standing on the deck of a ship casting firm and calm orders to scurrying sailors trying to adapt to the storm, the whale, or the battle. None of these would faze him in the least.
"Not much, I have only been here a couple of times and I usually don't research cities other than to find out where to go and where I might eat, or shop, if it came to that." She didn't mention that research into the history or the background of a city was an act that she deferred to her husband, or occasionally, Mike.
"You lose the opportunity to make the city more, more than just a mixture of shops, ethnic backgrounds and pretty buildings. Cities are a story written in stone. They are a trail of dreams and failures. They are a promise of a future that might yet not come to pass, depending on the people that are there. They are evidence of our humanity." He said this as he looked out the window. Catherine felt both ignored and blessed to be allowed into his thoughts.
Captain Jack directed the chauffer to drive them past things she knew and did not know as he narrated things of note: The Big Dig that went beneath the city, and its starts and stops, errors and corruptions, cost overruns and delays, but eventually it will merely be a road that everyone assumes was always there. Catherine imagined him upset with the limited knowledge and memory of the general public. She shivered slightly, imagining him not to be someone she would want to disappoint. She found that an odd feeling toward someone she had only just met. And she knew it went well beyond him being a paying customer.
He showed her the beauty of the diversity of the buildings. Like many old cities, Boston mixed its historically oldest architecture with newer styles, some art deco here, some clean glass and granite here, even some ugly concrete slugs, Captain Jack laughed, added to the interesting mix. Again Catherine found herself (with little good reason), wanting to contribute t
o this man, not only to keep from raising his ire, but to add to his joy.
He seemed to find a joy in big cities that kept their parks up, interesting in complexity, and free from too much commercialism. "There must be street vendors. Those are the souls of a city. It shows respect for the entrepreneurial spirit. But no buildings outside a zoo or an occasional pagoda." He pointed out the display over the Big Dig, a walking park, he called it. Here was the famous Boston Commons, a bit of a disappointment, he thought, but the Back Bay parks had much more personality.
He pointed out the Public Garden, as the limo stopped. "That is much more of what I had in mind. Nice calm walk paths, flowers and trees, people and peace."
The chauffer pulled open the door and extended her his hand. She took it, and successfully she felt, negotiated the skirt out the door. Captain Jack soon stood at her side, and for the first time she noticed he carried a cane. He took a step, demonstrating a slight limp and she asked, "Are you alright?"
Her mind flashed to her pirate fantasy and she thought, "Well, not quite a peg leg, and no patch or parrot to be found anywhere."
He turned to her and stated, "My injury is an old friend, come about honestly and well earned. And like all my old friends, also honestly earned, they are not subject to pity. We will not discuss this any further, do you understand?"
Catherine nodded her head cautiously like a little girl caught peeking into her father's wallet. Captain Jack, gestured towards the doorman, who had been patiently holding the door to the Four Seasons restaurant open for them all this time. "Shall we go?" He asked, the gesture a point, rather than an open palm. She, nearly shamefully, headed towards the door, again inexplicably feeling a great sorrow at letting him down, rather than a rage at the rebuke.
Three Sides of the Coin (Catherine I) Page 11
